


The Gladstone Variations

by 221b_hound



Series: The Gladstone Variations (AU of Guitar Man) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, An AU of an AU, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Guitar Man AU, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In the comments to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/942932"> Bring It </a>on my LJ, the ever-delicious atlinmerrick asked for a slashy version of John and Sherlock working undercover as strippers. Apparently, her word is my command. </p><p>But this isn't that story.</p><p>No. You see, in order to write that story, I found that first I had to identify the departure point at which The Guitar Man universe veered into slash to become the Gladstone Variations.</p><p>As a result, I wrote two stories focused on the same night. They share some prose and dialogue, but the differences are significant. The Shelrock and John from this story begin with the germ of potential that is absent in the Guitar Man fics. Here, that little seed is watered and blooms into wonderful, kiss-me-all-over, I-fancy-the-pants-off-you love. I expect I'll play around in this AU of my AU from time to time. I have the stripper story to write, for starters.</p><p>The title and song lyrics in this story are Miracle by Shinedown.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. All We Are is All I Am

**Author's Note:**

> In the comments to [ Bring It ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/942932)on my LJ, the ever-delicious atlinmerrick asked for a slashy version of John and Sherlock working undercover as strippers. Apparently, her word is my command. 
> 
> But this isn't that story.
> 
> No. You see, in order to write that story, I found that first I had to identify the departure point at which The Guitar Man universe veered into slash to become the Gladstone Variations.
> 
> As a result, I wrote two stories focused on the same night. They share some prose and dialogue, but the differences are significant. The Shelrock and John from this story begin with the germ of potential that is absent in the Guitar Man fics. Here, that little seed is watered and blooms into wonderful, kiss-me-all-over, I-fancy-the-pants-off-you love. I expect I'll play around in this AU of my AU from time to time. I have the stripper story to write, for starters.
> 
> The title and song lyrics in this story are Miracle by Shinedown.

Everyone who thought Sherlock and John were lovers in the first year of their flat-sharing were eventually correct. However, by the time it actually happened and then became common knowledge, it had erroneously been ‘common knowledge’ for over two years.

Mrs Hudson knows when it began, and was quietly pleased for them without ever saying a word. The householders at 221 Baker Street simply transitioned from flatmates and their landlady to life partners and their dear friend with very little commotion and no emotional second-guessing at all.

Sherlock and John were comrades-in-arms, platonic best friends and soul brothers for the first months of their unusual partnership. When Sherlock discovered John’s musical past and they began to make music together, little changed. On the surface, at any rate.

Under the surface, that was different. Change began: slow, imperceptible, inevitable.

And then Sherlock was forced to fake his death, and John made a leap of faith. With a song, he found Sherlock out there in the dark. A brutal year of fear and loss and longing, a year of using music as their voices, a year of singing Sherlock home, took that imperceptible seed of change and nurtured it.

It blossomed at last during Sherlock’s first weeks at home after his year Away. His Year in Hell.

The awakening began that very first night, when they fell asleep on the floor after Sherlock had finally given in to the emotional strain and collapsed in John’s arms. In the middle of the night, they woke, stiff and aching and unable to leave each other’s sight. John helped Sherlock to his room and found he couldn’t go out again. Sherlock didn’t want him to. So they lay together on the bed and when sleep wouldn’t come, John sang the Scottish lullaby until it did.

They slept the remainder of night, the first solid rest either of them had had since Sherlock had stepped off the roof of St Bart’s.

The nights after that were less peaceful. Insomnia and nightmares plagued them both.

On the second night, Sherlock stumbled out of his room to the kitchen in pyjama bottoms but shirtless, limping still, the bruises and scars and still healing wounds on his chest, arms and back startlingly visible. His hand shook as he poured a glass of water from the tap, and he scowled at the hand as though it betrayed him.

“Sherlock…”

The soft voice made him drop the glass, which shattered in the sink, and he whirled, dropping to a fighting stance before he saw John on the sofa, his untouched guitar propped on the carpet beside him, a notebook and pen in his lap.

“Sorry,” said John, “I… couldn’t sleep.”

Sherlock closed his trembling hand in a fist. Swallowed. Swallowed again. Clenched his jaw.

“Sherlock, don’t,” said John gently, “I’m the last person in the world you need to hide things from, or explain things to.  I know all about PTSD. ”

The old Sherlock would have denied it haughtily, called John an idiot and crushed the anxiety response and the hammering of his heart, repressing the horror until he believed it no longer existed. But old Sherlock had died stepping off a hospital rooftop. New Sherlock had been sung back to life, remade by loss and love, by the ferocious will to protect everything he loved; and by John.

So he nodded, poured a fresh glass of water and joined John on the sofa. He jammed himself up at one end, his arms and legs pulled tightly against his body, making himself a small, small target, and sipped cautiously at the water.

John lifted his guitar into position and strummed few idle chords.

“Is it all right if I play?”

Sherlock ‘hmmed’ in response.

John picked out a melody. Sherlock closed his eyes. Finally, he unfurled his legs a little, his shoulders relaxing from their hunch. As John played the familiar tune, Sherlock dared to tuck his feet under John’s thigh. John continued _This Ghost_ to the end. Then he dropped a hand to pat Sherlock’s ankle. Sherlock’s feet burrowed further under John’s leg. John played _Illuminated_ , fingers moving nimbly across the strings.

“You were writing something new,” said Sherlock, looking at the notebook and pen discarded on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” said John, “Still a work in progress. I was trying to get the lyric right.”

“Play it for me.”

“It’s not finished.”

“Play it anyway.”

John regarded Sherlock thoughtfully before opening the notebook and placing his fingers on the strings. A strong, steady stream of notes flowed from the instrument before he sang.

 _Say it once, tell me twice_  
Are you certain I’m all right?  
Just a sign to remind me  
Tomorrow’s worth the fight  
Ever changing  
the storyline that keeps me alive  
So make a wish and say  
  
Give me life, give me love  
Scarlet angel from above  
Not so low, not so high  
Keep it perfectly disguised  
Ever changing  
The storyline that keeps me alive  
My Mona Lisa’s making me smile  
Right before my eyes

 _Take another look, take a look around_  
It’s you and me, it’s here and now  
As you sparkle in the sky, I’ll catch you while I can  
‘Cause all we are is all I am.  
I just want you to see what I’ve always believed  
You are the miracle in me.

 _These are the moments you can’t pass by_  
Let’s turn the water to wine  
One last time

 _Take another look, take a look around_  
It’s you and me, it’s here and now  
As you sparkle in the sky, I’ll catch you while I can  
‘Cause all we are is all I am.  
I just want you to see what I’ve always believed  
You are the miracle in me.

The last note faded away and John raised his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. “It needs another verse, at least, and I don’t know if I’m happy with the start.”

Sherlock blinked at him, remembering how he’d confessed yesterday to being at the graveyard the day John asked for a miracle, Sherlock’s final indulgence before disappearing, perhaps forever. Remembering how John had seemed torn between yelling and crying for a moment before taking a third path, and laughing at him. “You daft, sentimental sod,” he’d said affectionately, and then made tea.

John, reflected Sherlock, was a miracle in himself. _The miracle in me._

“Scarlet angel?” he asked.

John shrugged again. “I… dream things,” he said, “Sometimes they go into the songs.”

Sherlock dreamed of scarlet himself. Not good things, generally. A scarlet angel, though? He glanced sideways at John. Perhaps it was an image he could take to his subconscious mind. Perhaps it would help.

Eventually, Sherlock said he should probably go back to bed. He limped to the kitchen, only to find John following him.

John, looking awkward, said: “I can’t sleep. I’d like to… stay.” and nodded towards the bedroom. “Make sure you don’t disappear.” He smiled wanly.

Sherlock studied him, his take-no-prisoners scrutiny of old, and John let him, open as a book. A moment later, Sherlock replied. “I’d like that.” He drew a breath. “Make sure you don’t either.”

John smiled.

In Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock crawled under the covers on the right side of the bed. John propped his guitar against the wall and slid under the quilt only, back against the headboard, on the left.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John shrugged. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”

The feeling of safety settled over Sherlock like warm sunshine, and he slept.

He still dreamed, though. Pursuit, blood, falling, failure, blades and teeth – but a hand was on his shoulder as he sat, bolt upright, panting, and a voice he trusted with his life said: “It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s over. You’re home.”

The next night, John didn’t ask. He simply retired with Sherlock, made himself comfortable on the left side of the bed, then kept watch until Sherlock dozed off. John was there when the nightmares woke him. John had nightmares of his own, too. Mostly he didn’t sleep. For a year his mind had been afraid that Sherlock needed him when he wasn’t there (and how true that had been), and now his mind was afraid that Sherlock would disappear if he closed his eyes.

Sherlock and John are smart men. They knew what was going on, and why they needed it.  They needed to know the other was safe; needed to feel safe in order to sleep. They needed to wake up knowing the other was really, actually and truly there. So they didn’t talk about it. They just gave each other what they needed.

On the eighth night, Sherlock woke from a nightmare and John was there, lying beside him, his voice soothing, a hand on his arm. “You’re home, Sherlock. It’s Baker Street. Everything’s all right.”

Sherlock lay on his back, catching his breath, recovering from the warped dream memory of running through the streets of Warsaw, hell on his heels. Real life had been almost as bad as the dream, ending at the railyards in sprays of blood and bone and guts under the crushing tonnes of a moving carriage. Deliberately reducing a human body to offal and meat was not Sherlock’s original plan, no, but it was the plan he’d been left with.  Failure meant exposure, and exposure meant losing everything. Losing everyone.  Losing John. Sebastian Moran would make sure of it, if he knew, and so Sherlock did awful things to murderous people, so that Moran would never know.

At last, Sherlock had even managed to kill Moran, although the personal cost of getting close enough to attempt it had been high. Protecting home had nearly cost Sherlock his life, several times over. But it hadn’t. It hadn’t, and he was alive, and John was alive, and he was home.

Sherlock blinked prickling sweat from his eyes. John hadn’t pushed or pried for confidences. Of course, John could readily surmise the nature of that year, if not the details. John wasn’t stupid.

“John,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock.”  The sound of his name in John’s voice was ridiculously reassuring.

 “I don’t regret the things I did,” Sherlock said, matter-of-fact and low, “They were necessary. But…” Unexpectedly, his voice shrank, “Terrible.”

John rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He moved his hand down Sherlock’s sweat-damped skin, tracing scars and still-healing wounds, fingers light over deep bruises and cracked ribs, to come to rest at last over Sherlock’s racing heart.

“And terrible things were done to you,” said John. His voice was rough. His fingers traced delicate circles over abused skin.

“I killed people. If it was necessary.”

“Sometimes it is.”

“I didn’t like it. Killing is ugly. It’s brutal. There’s no... _finesse_ in it. But if it was me or them, or _you_ or them… I chose you.”

“It’s good that you don’t like it,” John said, “That’s human and sane.” His hand continued to move slowly, gently, in small circles over Sherlock’s chest. Over his heart.

“You don’t like it either.”

“No. But sometimes it’s necessary, as you say.”

“I don’t dream about the killing. Not exactly.”

“What do you dream?”

 _Death_ , thought Sherlock. His own. John. Mrs Hudson. Greg Lestrade. Molly and Mycroft, sometimes even Angelo or people from the homeless network or even, good lord, Tad Anderson. But mostly, and most horribly, John.

“Failing,” said Sherlock, and his voice faltered.

“You didn’t fail,” said John. His hand flexed slightly, as though cupping the wild throbbing of Sherlock’s heart in his palm. “You beat them.”

“It was a near thing, sometimes.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes. Here I am.” Sherlock sighed. “I did what I had to do to survive, and to protect you. To come home.”

John considered this quietly in the dark. “It’s a philosophy of last resort, but sometimes that’s all we have. Given the choice between that cabbie and you, I chose you. I never regretted a second of that choice. I’d choose you again in a heartbeat. I always do. I always will.”

Sherlock raised a hand and placed it over John’s, still resting on his chest. “And I choose you. Every time. In a heartbeat.”

Sherlock turned his head and in the faint streetlight falling through his bedroom window, he saw John’s wide eyes regarding him hopefully.

“I am not used to… wanting…” Sherlock wasn’t sure this was the right place to start, but he didn’t know where the right place was. “But I want…”

John’s hand moved carefully on his chest, clavicle to rib, gliding over his left pectoral muscle, Sherlock’s hand resting over his, not guiding, not halting. Sherlock gasped a barely audible ‘yes’.

John leaned over and pressed lips to Sherlock’s forehead, then his temple.

“I want to touch you,” said Sherlock, and lifted his hand from John’s, placed it on John’s arm. Moved his fingers down biceps, elbow, forearm, wrist.

‘I want you to touch me,” said Sherlock, and sighed when John’s hand slid across his chest, up his throat, to cradle the side of his face.

John kissed his mouth, and Sherlock sighed into the pressure, pressed into it. Soft and chaste and sweet. Sherlock’s hand left John’s wrist, drifting to his hip, and those large, graceful hands, long fingers, spread wide over the surface of cotton pyjamas, John’s body, and waited.

John’s mouth moved, from Sherlock’s lips to his cheeks, forehead, temples, eyes, nose, mouth again. Sherlock kissed back whenever their lips met, but kept his eyes shut, letting his skin drink in those delicate touches. His hand tightened on John’s hip. But a sudden press of John’s hand against his sore ribs made him gasp sharply in obvious pain.

“Wait,” whispered John against his mouth, “I’ll be right back. I’m not going away.” He kissed Sherlock again, “I promise. Right back.” Another kiss. Another, to Sherlock’s jaw, to his throat, to his shoulder. “Just a jiffy. I’ll be right back. Promise.”

John slid away into the darkness and Sherlock waited. He heard footfalls in the kitchen. A drawer opening and closing. The changing pitch of water run into a glass. Returning steps. Sherlock opened his eyes as John approached his side of the bed and placed water and tablets on the side table.

“I don’t need those,” he said.

“Yes you do. Sit up.”

Sherlock grimaced, but he sat up, wincing as his injuries made themselves felt.  John slipped a hand under Sherlock’s arm and helped him to sit at the side of the bed. He passed Sherlock the painkillers, then the water.

“You never stop thinking like a doctor,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Occupational hazard,” John laughed.

“We were in the middle of something.” Sherlock scowled.

John leaned down to kiss him. “We can start again whenever you’re ready.” He stroked Sherlock’s face.  “We can take things easy. There’s no hurry, and you’re still hurt.”

“I want to touch you.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pressed his face against John’s stomach. He moved to lift the worn T-shirt away. John easily took the hint and pulled the shirt off, so that Sherlock could press his cheek to skin and the scattering of dark blonde belly hair. Sherlock mouthed the skin under his lips, kissed a line along John’s ribs up to his sternum.

John made small, pleased sounds and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s bleached, cropped hair, then pressed one hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, then down his spine. John’s other palm pressed flat to Sherlock’s shoulder, down his arm, back up to Sherlock’s face. He held Sherlock’s chin briefly as he leaned down to kiss him again.

Sherlock’s palms flattened against John’s hips, glided around to his lower back and up towards his shoulders. One hand lingered over the scar of the exit wound, then both hands swept down, slid under the band of John’s pyjama pants and cupped John’s buttocks. John’s hands tightened across Sherlock’s back and he dropped kisses to Sherlock’s hair, used a hand to tilt Sherlock’s face upward and kissed his mouth again.

The kiss deepened, and Sherlock’s palms swept south, pulling the pyjamas down. Free from encumbrance, Sherlock splayed and moved his hands: to the top of John’s thighs, down to the back of his knees, his calves, back up the length of his sturdy legs and the curve of his bum. John’s erection radiated heat against Sherlock’s breastbone, but neither moved to touch it.

“Here.” John stepped out of his fallen clothes and shifted to help Sherlock ease back onto the bed. John’s hand pressed against Sherlock’s ribs then moved down, hooking into Sherlock’s pyjama pants, pulling them away, his palms firm against Sherlock’s thighs and knees and calves until he was naked too, his erection full and hard, arched up against his belly.

John crawled back onto the bed again and lay on his right side to face Sherlock, lying on his left.

John’s left hand caressed Sherlock’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone and jaw, down his throat to his collarbone. He leaned in for another kiss, then drew away to look at Sherlock’s face, gilded by streetlight. He shifted so that his right arm curled underneath Sherlock’s neck and bent to stroke his hair. His other hand drifted gently over Sherlock’s erection, feeling the heat of it, making Sherlock sigh-moan-sob, but then John caressed Sherlock’s thigh, carefully encouraging him closer.

Sherlock shuffled close, and his arm could reach right aroun John’s spine now. His left arm was caught between them, pressed to John’s chest. Sherlock’s right hand drifted down the curve of John’s arm, his hip, his thigh, then up again, over the rise of the hip to rub lazy circles against John’s lower back, up over his ribs.

“I’m not used to wanting this,” he said.

“I’m glad you do,” said John. His left hand was pressed to Sherlock’s hip, then his backside, gliding in an unhurried, broad circle.

“I thought of you so often, while I was gone. I didn’t think you’d want this too.” Sherlock’s right hand swept back over John’s ribs to belly, down to the soft skin at the inside of John’s upper thigh, brushing against his testicles. John moaned and pressed his face against Sherlock’s throat, sucking at the skin there.

Sherlock wanted to touch everywhere. To feel that beloved person under his hands, to know that skin without having to see it. His hands continued to roam, and his body to press its length against John’s, delighting in more skin and flesh than just the twins of hard heat between their pelvises.

“Turns out that my love is not quite so platonic after all,” said John with a small laugh, arching into Sherlock’s explorations, and conducting explorations of his own, memorising Sherlock’s topography with his fingertips, skin thirsty for sensation of him. “I was a bit surprised myself to begin with, but…” he kissed Sherlock, “I’m nothing if not a realist. Things are what they are. I feel how I feel.”

Sherlock shifted closer still towards John, a small hiss escaping him at the pain in his ribs, a gasp as gentle hands and lips soothed the momentary ache,  a breathy moan when their erections brushed together. John wriggled closer too, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

They kissed for a good long while after that, lips and tongues charting mouths and throats and eyes, just as chests and bellies and cocks and thighs pressed, pleasingly hot, deliciously close, skin moving languidly on hypersensitive skin. It was heady. It was heaven.

Sherlock wanted to move faster, gripped John’s leg and tried to push John onto his back, but his injuries were not cooperative. Sherlock grit his teeth against the pain.

“No hurry, love,” said John, soothing Sherlock back onto his side with kisses and caresses, “Plenty of time. This is good.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “This is fine.” A kiss to his lower lip. “All.” Kiss. “Fine.” Kiss.

They wound their arms around each other, pulled each other as close as possible, making up for the year-long absence by denying the possibility of any space existing between their bodies. A sheet of clingwrap could not have found room there. John was careful, gentle, mindful of Sherlock’s battered body. Sherlock would not have been mindful of his injuries at all, except that they made John hesitate, so he clung greedily, absorbing every touch, touching everywhere he could.

Every moment of it was leisurely and exquisite.

The heated motion of touch-taste-scent, you’re-here-you’re-mine, never-let-me-go was slow, then fast. Their hips moved urgently. They cupped each other’s arses and wriggled closer still. Legs tangled up together, seeking better leverage. John’s right arm, underneath Sherlock’s shoulder, wound around Sherlock’s back and held him close. Sherlock’s left arm, still between them, shifted until he held John’s face in his left palm.

Sweat and pre-ejaculate made them slick and they pressed close, their hands and legs drew them closer still, and they found a rhythm, then lost it and they were moaning and whispering names, and then calling them out, helpless breathy sounds before they ended, wrapped in each other’s limbs, placing exhausted kisses to damp skin.

Perhaps it wasn’t world-shattering sex. But then, maybe that depended entirely on your world.

As they caught their breath, John resumed a series of gentle kisses, his mouth roaming over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, eyes closed, accepted every touch before, finally, taking John’s jaw in his hand to still the roaming and nipped John’s lower lip. John laughed, which made Sherlock laugh too.

“Wait here,” said John.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m just getting a towel to clean up.”

“Don’t go.”

“We’re sticky, Sherlock.”

“Don’t care.”

John gave it up. He shifted onto his back, and Sherlock threw an arm around his waist and moved in, being careful of his ribs, the ache of his muscles pronounced again without the distraction of desire.

John kissed Sherlock’s brow, rubbed his cheek against the short hair, imagined for a moment what it would be like when it had grown out again.

They fell asleep.

No more nightmares intruded that night, though of course it wasn’t the last of them. Dreams like those never go away forever. John still wakes sometimes to visions of so much blood under a blazing Afghan sky or a tall man falling falling falling like a raven with broken wings; or Sherlock jerks awake, feet twitching like he’s still running, too late to save someone, or too slow to escape the abyss at his heels, or his body flinches, feeling the knives and the crack of bone, and soaking in blood (his own and others) and more and worse.

But the nightmares became less violent, less frequent. Some nights, when neither of them could sleep, they’d gather in the living room, violin and guitar filling in the companionable silence with companionable sound.  They stayed close, touching often, intimately, reassuringly. As Sherlock healed, they had sex and fucked and made love: playful  or sensuous or demanding or desperate or loving or any combination of these things and more.

Mrs Hudson made absolutely no observations on the clear change in their relationship, but brought scones and cakes and limitless, unjudging affection.

Three weeks. By the end of them, Sherlock was healthier, more settled. He joined John at rehearsals with the band. John sang his dreadful and impossibly cheerful song for him, calling attention to the light he found in Sherlock while being light himself. He finished writing his _Miracle_ song, but they didn’t teach it to the band. It was theirs alone. Greg and Molly and even the insufferable Anderson welcomed Sherlock home, anchored him more solidly into his life again. Sherlock decided to play with Collared.  He took on a case. Their lives became their own once more.

At the end of three weeks, John had permanently moved into Sherlock’s room. Their room now.

And still, if one can’t sleep, he keeps watch over the other. If there are nightmares, one will play music for the other. When the night is unbearable, they help each other bear it.

They never bothered making any kind of announcement. They never bothered to hide anything. People continued to assume what they’d always assumed, only now they were right. Anyone can see, whether they like the men of Baker Street or not: those men love each other, down to the marrow.

 


	2. Unchained Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musicians make the best lovers. So do doctors and detectives. John and Sherlock are living proof.

Musicians understand some things instinctively. It’s in their blood and bones; it’s deep in their brains and there in every heartbeat.

They understand things like rhythm and tempo, for a start. They understand that music can be many things, and how a single piece can change and transform depending on the instruments, the mood of the musicians, the state of their relationship, even. They know about melody and harmony and counterpoint and how a whole piece can be made of different parts that still fit. They know that the dominant instrument can change according to need.

They know the steady, practised measure of the well rehearsed song; they know the fierce, wild flow of improvisation, jamming, just thrashing it all out, laughing with the exhilaration, joy and just the sheer damned fun of it.

Accomplished musicians really do make the best lovers. Not only their brains, but their bodies are built for it.  
  
A guitarist’s hands, for example, are nimble and strong, with interesting calluses on the fingers of the fret hand. If the guitarist uses a pick, the strumming hand will have different calluses than musicians who eschew the pick in favour of fingers.  
  
When your lover is a doctor as well as a guitarist, you can be sure that his nails are kept trim and clean, and that despite the calluses, his hands will be well cared for. Soft, even, from regular application of hand lotion after washing his hands between patients, to keep his hands from chapping, as well as being hygienic and pleasant for each new patient.  
  
Sherlock loves John's hands. The contrast of softness and calluses; of strength and delicacy. He loves how John always seems to know what pressure to use when and where, and how to change it suddenly so that Sherlock is always gasping and moaning in surprise and pleasure. He loves that John knows when to keep the rhythm and the touch steady and driving. Little the catches of John’s tough finger pads on the delicate skin of throat, wrist, belly, penis and inner thigh; in Sherlock’s hair and against his scalp; but also John’s soft yielding skin against Sherlock's many small scars. The contrast is always balancing. Always perfect.

Doctors have other qualities, too. Patience and listening and being commanding when it’s called for (especially true of an army doctor, a captain). Doctors know how to be careful when necessary; they know when they don’t need to be careful, too. When they can be unrestrained without causing harm. When to bite and how hard, and where to dig the fingers into skin and thrust, and how to soothe the beautiful ache afterwards. A doctor knows all about the human body, its limits, its secrets.

This doctor does, at any rate. This doctor has qualities that no person, in Sherlock’s experience, has ever had. He knows Sherlock and accepts him and loves him.  But the primary quality that Sherlock loves about John is that even if John doesn’t always understand him, he _tries_ , and what he doesn’t understand, he loves anyway. Sherlock has never known acceptance like that. It makes him, in truth, a bit giddy.  
  
A violinist's hands are a little different to those of a guitarist. The instrument is smaller, and requires perhaps more finesse than strength. The instrument is more subtle, more about flow and control, in some ways. Not that the guitar isn’t about flow and control too. They are different manifestations of the same creative urge, perhaps.

But a violinist’s left hand, also the fingerboard hand, has calluses or at least a certain toughness on the fingertips, to withstand the pressure of the strings as the musicians finds just the right pressure and position for the best intonation. The right hand, the bow hand, may develop a slight ridge along the forefinger, depending on how much pressure is brought to bear on each stroke.  
  
When the violinist is also a scientist and a detective who liked conducting experiments, not always with the best protection, there may be a range of other effects on those hands. Not only calluses, but scars and acid burns that bleach the skin. Sherlock’s hands are scattered with small marks, but Sherlock is not as careless as he sometimes appears. He respects his hands, even has he drives them, like he drives his whole body. His hands, also like his whole body, are very expressive.  
  
John loves Sherlock's hands. He loves the slight toughness that is not quite a callus on the tips of his left fingers, and how sensitive the fingers on both hands are to nuances of pressure. He loves that Sherlock's hands are large, and that they span John's hips effortlessly, thumb in the hollow in front of his hipbone, fingertips reaching round towards the cleft of his arse. He loves that Sherlock's fingers are long and sensitive, and that Sherlock always knows where to place each finger on, or in, his body for best effect. Sherlock is very precise about where he lays his hands, and what each hand is doing, and both the individual and combined effects. Sherlock is delicate, sure, mindful and sensuous when he plays John's body.

John likes the press of Sherlock's long fingers against his scars, the entry and exit wounds of an Afghani bullet, which is not something John ever thought he'd like. Someone probing that physical representation of the day he lost everything. Or found everything; depending on your point of view. The scars are also the herald of all the amazing and wonderful things that came after he met Sherlock, that whole new life. When Sherlock touches them, with the toughened tips of his left hand, his supple, smooth fingers of the right, soothing and inquisitive, John thinks of learning to run without that pointless limp; of learning to be alive again, to breathe instead of suffocate. Oxygen and adrenalin and purpose and someone who understood him, all of him, every facet of him, for the first time in his life.

Oh, and the music. Sherlock gave music back to him too, after John had put it away for so long. Now Sherlock uses those wonderful hands to draw music out of John in other ways: percussive or in voiced moans or in breathy sighs.  
  
John draws music out of Sherlock too, with his musician’s hands, with his singer's mouth. John's the lyricist, and he's the one who talks. Endearments and murmured oaths. John has a sweary mouth at the oddest times, sometimes, but when he moans and mutters _oh god, oh fuck, fuck yes, there, Jesus, yes_ , it's more a mantra, the chanting of something good and perfect in this flawed world.  
  
Sherlock works in notes, not words, and so accordingly when their bodies are composing symphonies with sex, he breathes in low notes, hums a bass rumble with John's cock in his mouth, against the rim of his anus, against his spine and his pulse points, and when John's mouth is on him and in him, the bass note rises and hitches, long drawn notes go high and staccato.

John the lyricist says many words and like all of his songs about Sherlock, all the words just mean _Yes_ and _Mine_ and _Love_. Sherlock the instrumentalist makes music with his breath and says only two words. _Yes. John. Yes. Yes John. John. John John Yes JohnJohnJohn_. These two words alone, and all the sighing orchestra of his breath, also mean _Yes_ and _Mine_ and _Love_.

It’s funny, because when it isn’t music, John is the quiet one and Sherlock is all talk talk talk talk. But this here, in their bed, it isn’t all genius and friend, deduction and protection. No. Here, it’s all sensation and body language and the singing of nerve endings.

Detectives have certain qualities too. Inquisitiveness, persistence, patience. Deduction, of course. They can – or this one does – understand a hundred things about his partner’s moods and needs and desires, even those he doesn’t really know he has. Some people might find that disconcerting or embarrassing or humiliating. Not this doctor. He finds it erotic and charming and sometimes wonderfully funny, and of course from time to time he likes to watch his detective lover reach some conclusion about John’s wants and then subvert them. Sherlock loves it when John does that too.  It’s like a counter-melody. A mash-up. A sudden shift to a minor key, or to the major, or slipping from tango to waltz, or foxtrot to salsa. It’s exquisite.  
  
As always, their music is different but complementary. The songs they make together under the sheets or on the sofa or over the table or in the shower (and sometimes in alleyways, or broom cupboards, and once in a dressing room, and even once in the back of a Black Maria, which Greg Lestrade still teases them about from time to time) – those songs their bodies and voices make are always new, no matter how familiar the tune seems to be.

Musicians, after all, make the best lovers. So do doctors and detectives. John and Sherlock are living proof.

 


	3. My Love is Electric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on a case at a gay bar, some bastard slips John a date rape drug. He's saved from harm, but there are consequences. It's not fun, or funny, to see someone you've just realised you love go from wanting you because they love you to just being horny and wanting to get off because of a chemical cocktail. Other insecurities surface too.
> 
> Sherlock is furious. He is sick to his stomach. But he's not angry with John. Never with John. Because that gift of desire John gives him was stolen from him too.
> 
> (This story is much less grim than it sounds.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tite is from Cobra Starship's The Church of Hot Addiction. John also sings lines from Bring It (Snakes on a Plane) by Cobra Starship and Britney Spears' Toxic.
> 
> This story riffs off the Guitar Man/BFFs version, [Bring It (Chapter 9 of Songs in the Key of (221)B)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/942932) but takes a darker turn for a while. No sexual non-con, though, but emotional fallout from the attempt. 
> 
> This version of the event takes place at an earlier point in John and Sherlock's personal timeline than Bring It, and John and Sherlock have been a couple for only a eight or ten weeks.

The Incident at the gay bar was, Sherlock reflected a long time later, a perfect example of how John Watson did not understand his own appeal. While John accepted readily enough that Sherlock Holmes not only _loved_ him but was most definitely _physically attracted_ to him, the idea that men who were _not_ Sherlock Holmes could _also_ view him with desire was still something the doctor found funny.

_Funny._

Unfathomable.

Thus it was that John went undercover dressed in a too-tight black T-shirt, his dog-tags and a pair of low-slung jeans that showed off an enticing band of red pants just above his objectively lovely arse. (Sherlock knew John’s arse was _objectively_ lovely, because he’d been comparing arses lately in the spirit of scientific enquiry and John’s was definitely the best in London, and no-one was more objective than Sherlock, so the point was proven.)

John found it amusing that men of all ages in the bar were hitting on him. Not amusing in a 'you don't stand a chance, sunshine, have you seen my _boyfriend_?' way but more of a 'you've got to be kidding, mister, have you actually _seen me_?' way. Sherlock was already making plans to demonstrate to John that he was exquisitely and objectively desirable once the case was done, when someone else tried force their own demonstration onto John.

John's failure to exercise proper precautions could be blamed partly on his ignorance that he might be targeted by sick and unscrupulous creeps, and partly on his distraction in the course of the investigation. As instructed, he was at the bar keeping an eye out for the accountant while Sherlock nosed around in the offices upstairs. On seeing the accountant heading for the office door, John texted Sherlock, and missed the creep in question tipping something liquid and faintly blue into his beer.

On receiving the text, Sherlock rapidly wound up copying the duplicate set of timesheets and the missing security footage. He then slipped unobtrusively back onto the dance floor only to find his partner missing from the bar. Sherlock located him a moment later through the simple medium of following John's loud, sweary voice to the karaoke stage.

“Christ on a bike, _do not grab my cock without asking_! That's just fucking _rude_ , goddamnit. I’m _singing_.”

Apparently, someone was making multiple and energetic attempts to grab John's crotch. John was having none of it, no, because – and this, Sherlock thought, was important – because John was in the middle of his karaoke number. Apparently, drugged-off-his-face John had skewed priori ties. (Of course Sherlock had instantly deduced that John had been drugged. He could not possibly be _drunk_ : there hadn’t been enough time to get that smashed, and in any case John would never be so unprofessional while on a case.)

Sherlock strode across to the small stage and held his hand up to John. "Get down from there, John."

John grinned and sashayed his hips at Sherlock in a very suggestive manner. "Dance with me, Sherlock!" John shouted down to him.

"You've been drugged," said Sherlock sternly, "Get off the stage."

"Nope. I'm singing!" And John grabbed the microphone and began to dance obscenely with it while he sang.

_The time has come for your devotion  
And you already got the motion_

"John!"

"Now _this_ man!" John, addressing the fascinated crowd, paused to point at Sherlock, who looked stunning in his extremely tight black trousers and sheer net shirt, " _This_ man may grab my cock, no questions asked, at any time of the night or day. _This_ man has _carte blanche_ on all my bits. While _you_ ," and here John jabbed a ragey finger at a man in tight black leather pants, "May fucking well _not_. Even if you _ask_. In fact, if you ask, I will laugh at you. Because _this_ ," and he pointed back at Sherlock, "This man here is my..." he scrunched up his face, trying to think of the word, before grinning like a besotted devil at Sherlock, "He is my light and my heart and my fucking life and my goddamned everything, so fucking help me, he is. But you may think of him as my delicious bit of crumpet, because I like to think of him as that too, _Jesus yes_ , you gorgeous bastard."

At which point John forgot what he was shouting about and resumed singing and dancing in a way that urgently reminded Sherlock of his recently resurrected libido.

 _Tonight I am a drug you can’t deny_  
Tonight – J OH! N  gonna get you high  
My love is electric  
HEY HEY HEY my love is electric!!

John grinned at Sherlock and danced for him like there was no-one else in the room.

Sherlock had seen John dance that way for the first time less than two months ago; not two weeks after they had become a couple. Sherlock had come home to find John prancing away while folding the laundry, in nothing but his own underwear and Sherlock’s blue robe. On seeing Sherlock, John had proceeded to perform a sinuous, sexy, hip-thrusting, arse wriggling dance involving artistic and erotic use of a clean tea-towel and the removal of Sherlock’s outerwear, then underwear, then inhibitions, over the course of several hours. It was not the last time they’d danced their way to bed, either.

That John was now performing a very similar, though still fully-clothed dance on a public stage was both erotic and confusing to Sherlock. The shift from friend to lover a few short months ago had provided Sherlock with the unexpected revelation that John was oh-dear-god _sexy as hell_ when he wasn’t being all self-contained. Well, when he was self-contained too, but self-contained-sexy-John and uninhibited-sexy-John were two different kinds of sexy. Even playing guitar on stage, John maintained a balance between the two kinds of sexy.

Uninhibited-sexy-dancing-John, Sherlock felt, was supposed to just be for Sherlock. Not this bunch of sweaty onlookers.

John’s current dance moves included quite a bit of hip grinding, and quite a bit more of touching himself, rubbing a flattened palm from sternum to groin, then down his inner thigh. A bit more grinding then took place. Leather Pants looked like he was going to try for another handful of crotch, or at least arse, but John’s expression suddenly turned from the heavy-lidded fuck-me-now look he was giving Sherlock to a savage do-you-want-to- _keep_ -that-hand? snarl for the interloper, and Leather Pants backed off.

Sherlock hooked his fingers into John’s jeans and pulled him bodily off the stage.

“Hey baby,” John grinned up at him, “Look at you. Fuck. Just look at you. All mine. Mine mine mine mine mine.”

“Yes, John, yours.”

“I wanna get you naked.”

“Fine. When we get home, you can.”

John fist-pumped the air in triumphant glee, grabbed hold of Sherlock’s net shirt and wobbled out of the building in his wake. They paused briefly on the dance floor while Sherlock, deducing who had spiked John’s drink, punched Leather Trousers, the filthy bastard, in the face.

Leather Trousers protested, so Sherlock explained why he was the lowest kind of filth, and punched him again.

“Tha’s **_right_**!” hollered John, “Do **NOT** grab my **COCK** without my **PERMISSION**. And permission is **_FUCKING DENIED, SOLDIER_**!”

Leather Trousers then made his second extremely poor decision of the evening. He snatched up a beer glass with the intention of smashing it into Sherlock’s face,  following the ill-thought-through impulse to destroy the pretty fucker’s exotic good looks.

Three punches: belly, solar plexus, nose. Blood gushed from the broken nose all over Leather Pants’s shirt, but he hadn’t noticed that because there was a small, ferocious tank dressed like a stripper kneeling on his stomach and shouting into his face in a surprisingly deep parade-ground bellow:

“Try-that-again-motherfucker-and-I-will-break-both-your-wrists-and-your-fuckbollocksing-legs-and-your-pissbuggery-fucking-jaw-do-you-understand-me-you-fuckturd-prickrotting-arsehole?-Touch-Sherlock-and ** _-I-will-fuck-you-up_**.”

Sherlock prised John off the whimpering remains of the fuckturd and pushed him rapidly towards the exit, thinking there might yet be time to get John and whatever might remain of John’s dignity home before the police answered his earlier texted summons. Sherlock wouldn’t have cared if the Met had filmed him and John dressed in their come-hither clubbing outfits; he did care that John’s self-containment was shot all to hell and John was most definitely not in command of his mouth, let alone his hips. Sherlock was absolutely certain that John in a sober state would not be thrilled to be found all sexed up and out of control on the dance floor.

“John, come on,” he muttered, “Lestrade’s on the way.”

Things did not improve once they got outside. Instead, John giggled and went dancing off into the footpath, turning to display his sexiest, filthiest dance moves for Sherlock while singing a completely different song.  

_So kiss me goodbye, honey I’m gonna make it out alive  
So kiss me goodbye, I can see the venom in your eyes_

Half of the queuing patrons of this bar were currently looking at John like they’d happily eat him up with a spoon. John waved acknowledgement at the admiration, which Sherlock tried to suppose at least supported his argument that John was attractive to other men as well. Mostly, it made him want to punch every single queuing person in the head.

John’s dancing became eighty percent more sinuous. He was practically having sex with Sherlock-shaped air right in front of him, while giving Sherlock an intense stare.

 _Eyefucking_ , Sherlock thought suddenly, _he is fucking me with his eyes._ Another erotic thrill shot down his spine and into his balls before he scowled at his own response. Two decades of practice kicked in, and he told his hormones to _piss off._

And this was when the squad car pulled up and Greg Lestrade emerged.

“Greg! Hey! Hi” called out John as he waved, then resumed the bump-and-grind that honestly ought to have made at least four actual men in his immediate vicinity pregnant.

 Greg waved his accompanying uniformed officers away from arresting the good doctor for drunk and disorderly.

“Someone spiked his drink,” said Sherlock darkly.

“Doesn’t explain why the two of you are dressed up like the star attraction of a male dance revue,” Greg observed.  Sherlock scowled. Greg shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Go and arrest the bad guy, Greg’. I know the drill. Is the killer the one who drugged him?”

“No,” said Sherlock, more darkly than ever, “Some moron fancied him and decided this was easier than asking.”

Greg’s eyebrows nearly climbed off his face. He had what were probably very accurate visions of what would happen to someone who tried to molest Sherlock Holmes’s boyfriend.

John had danced over to them and was hanging onto Sherlock’s  arm while he moved in a kind of rhythmic trance, face pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder. Suddenly, he stood up straight like someone had just goosed him. “And then the pricktosser tried to glass Sherlock,” he growled.

Greg’s expression then reflected his thoughts on what happened to people who tried to hurt John Watson’s boyfriend. The picture wasn’t pretty. The non-prettiness of the picture intensified when John leaned close, grinning like an unrepentant wolf, and said. “We taught him some fucking manners, didn’t we, Crumpet.”

The look Sherlock gave Greg dared him to say something about the pet name; just fucking _dared_ him. Greg wisely stayed silent on the subject.

“And should I be worried about the arsehole who did this to John pressing charges for assault?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” said Sherlock, “I imagine he’s too terrified of John to consider it.”

The two of them looked at John, who was not looking in the least bit terrifying, with his arms in the air, his hips rolling and thrusting to the music in his head.

“Arrest the arsehole,” said Sherlock suddenly, ferociously, “You may want to cut the… the… **_pricktosser_** … some deal to find out about the drug he used on John. It appears to be new, with some…” 

Sherlock and Greg regarded John as he basked in the appreciative whistling of the queue, then turned to point at Sherlock and shout:  “See him? He’s with me! Can you believe it? Brains! Beauty! Charm, when he can be bothered. Hilarious when he can’t. Fuck, he blows up the kitchen twice a month and I love him like fucking _breathing_. **_Look. At. Him_**. Christ, how lucky am I?”

“… unusual side effects.”

John reeled back towards them, flung his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, giggling for a moment before sighing deeply and pressing his face into Sherlock’s chest, breathing deeply of Sherlock’s scent. He looked up into Sherlock’s stern and disapproving gaze.

"I fucking love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you. Seriously. I fucking love you."

Sherlock sighed. Just because the declaration was drug-induced, it didn’t mean it wasn’t sincere. John had declared his love more soberly before now, but in much the same words as he’d used earlier tonight. In the privacy and intimacy of their home, mind you, not on a public street in front of a night club with a considerable audience and police witnesses.

“Seriously, Sherlock. I fucking love you.” John paused to shout **_He’s my feller!_** at some encouraging cheers coming from the queue then back to Sherlock, “They fancy you. Not as much as I fancy you. I fancy you like you wouldn’t fucking believe. That magnificent _brain_ of yours.  That _arse_. That _mouth_. Jesus, you are amazing, look at you, Christ, you’re amazing. Did I say that already? But you are. Amazing, your mind’s like a whole whole whole _thing,_ a whole new _world,_ you are _brilliant_ , you make everything, you make it…” words failed and John gesticulated some kind of zooming motion, making a zooming noise too, as though indicating how big and brilliant and awesome the world became in Sherlock’s presence, “and Christ you make me laugh, and god what a fabulous arse on you and so fucking _tall_ and those _hands_ and you play the violin like it’s part of you and you sing with me, _sing sing sing_ _to me_ , beautiful, god you are, you’re beautiful and _mine mine mine mine_ and I. Fucking. Love. You.”

The accompanying intense stare was another supreme example of _eyefucking_ and despite the time and place and reason for the declaration, Sherlock was half erect anyway, even though he didn’t want to be. He refused to meet Greg’s amused gaze, fearing he may punch the DI in both eyes. Instead, he said "I love you too, John," in a quelling tone, as a reply seemed obligatory, and of course it was also true.

"No, no, no, no, no..." John’s stare deepened. “I. Fucking. Love. You."

"I fucking love you too, John,” Sherlock responded solemnly, to John’s satisfaction, “Now get into the taxi. We’re going home."

In reply, John practically climbed up Sherlock’s long, lean body, and pulled him down into a long, slow mouth-fucking kiss. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s shapely arse in both hands and tugged them closer together.

Sherlock was furious. Absolutely, hell-searingly, ferociously, fire-spittingly incensed. But not at John. Never at John. So he did his best, he did, to return the kiss gently, tenderly, but not passionately, although it was the kind of kiss that would normally have Sherlock weak kneed and spreading his legs for more.  Sherlock cradled John’s face in his hands, kissed John’s cheeks and forehead as well as his mouth, saying “Hush John, shh, that’s it, shhh, yes I love you. Yes, I fucking love you. Calm down, now. That’s it. Shh.”

John’s frantic, grinding, all-tongue, all-body kiss actually calmed. John’s response gentled and he stood there at last, hands resting quietly on Sherlock’s waist, his face tilted up and happily receiving the soothing, lovely press of kisses to his skin. He smiled, blissfully, and took great, deep, sighing breaths.

“That’s it John,” Sherlock said, running his hands through John’s hair. John’s eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see Sherlock’s stricken expression. Lestrade, could though, and it came to him just how not funny this really was.

“The two of you had better get home,” said Greg, frowning.

Sherlock released John, who immediately wrapped himself around Sherlock like a limpet and nuzzled his armpit. Sherlock held him close and gently, running a firm, grounding hand against his back.

“I am trying,” he snarled.

“I know.” Greg paused to regard John with concern. “I don’t think he’ll need hospital, just sleep. He’ll be fine.”

Sherlock’s face grew stonier. “Don’t make a deal with the pricktosser, Greg. I want to lay charges. I want to send him to prison. _I want to beat him to death_.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that last bit out loud, Sherlock.”

“Just arrest the right people, Greg,” Sherlock snapped, in an unsuccessful attempt to sound brisk and in charge instead of crumbling at the edges. Then he bundled John into the taxi that had stopped for them and slammed the door shut.

A moment later, John was huddled up against the far door. He seemed to be slightly more coherent, or at least, less in the mood to sing and dance.

“Wha’ the ….?”

"Someone spiked your drink, John."

"’Zat why I feel so horny?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell.”

Silence fell for a time.

“Did we get the bastard?”

“The killer or the creep who drugged you?”

“Killer. I remember the pervert. Broke his nose.” A savage and satisfied grin lit up John’s face.

Sherlock checked the timely text message.  “Yes, they have him.”

“Good.”

In celebration, John crawled across the seat of the cab and very nearly into Sherlock’s lap. He was sucking at Sherlock’s ear in between snatches of incomprehensible song.

Sherlock held John close, spoke softly to him, trying to calm the once more increasingly frantic advances, and thought murderous things about the man in leather pants.

At Baker Street, Sherlock managed to pay the driver and get John into the flat in stages, each stage punctuated by groping, kissing, and, almost inexplicably, sudden launches into song and dance. Sherlock tried to gently dissuade John from the groping, even to the point of encouraging the dancing.

Then he hauled John to the bathroom, sat him on the lowered loo seat and tugged off John’s shoes before removing his black shirt. John giggled and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s ribs. He was murmuring something that turned out to be ‘mine mine mine mine mine’, so Sherlock ignored it and finished stripping John down to nothing but his very fine erection.

Then Sherlock turned on the shower and bundled John under the icy spray.

John shrieked and tried to punch the flow of water in the face before accusing it of making him _fucking horny_. He slipped, righted himself, wobbled and nearly fell again, steadied only by Sherlock leaning in to grab John around the waist. Sherlock realised there was nothing for it but to climb, fully clothed, under the shower with him, expensive designer shoes be damned. He stood behind John, holding him up, and moved so that mostly John was drenched in the icy water, although they both got soaked.

With Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his chest for support, John turned his face up into the flow of cold water, opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue to catch the droplets. Then he said “Fuck” crankily and grabbed his own crotch.

“It’s the chemicals from the date rape drug making you…” Sherlock began to explain.

“I know,” said John, “Fuck.” He blinked, as though rational thought was attempting another appearance. “What the fuck was in that stuff?”

“From your physiological reaction, I’m assuming Viagra as well as…”

“I don’t need Viagra.”

“No. You don’t.”

John grabbed himself again and groaned. “This shower is fucking cold.”

“I’m trying to shock your system into  calming your physical response and dealing with the toxins…”

John grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands and tried to force it down to his groin. “Oh god, Sherlock, please…”

“I’m not going to take advantage…”

“Noooo,” said John, panting now, his voice taking on a keening edge. It wasn’t sexually stimulating. He sounded like he was in pain. “Take advantage. Now. Fucking right fucking now. It’s starting to bloody hurt.”

“No.”

John glared at Sherlock, and then his face fell at the look of distress underneath the sternness on Sherlock’s face. John’s brain made a fierce attempt to get back in charge, and he exhaled, a great shuddering sigh of pain and humiliation.

“Christ. Sorry. Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Sherlock kissed John’s neck, wrapped his arms tighter around John’s torso. “It’s not your fault. Shh. See if the cold water helps.”

John winced and pressed back into Sherlock’s hold. “’S getting beyond taking advantage and into first aid territory. Think I’m going to burst a blood vessel.” He was panting again, more distraught than aroused now.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck and tried to decide what to do.

“Sh-sh-sherlock. Help me. I n-n-need…” Sherlock opened his eyes to see John reaching for the bottle of conditioner on the shower rack. Sherlock snatched it from the shelf, opened it with one hand and poured a generous pool of it into John’s outstretched palm. John grabbed his erection in the hand full of makeshift lube, gasping painfully. Sherlock shoved the conditioner back into the rack and turned on the hot water tap to take the frozen edge off the shower spray. He wrapped both arms around John again, buried his face into John’s neck once more.

“It’s all right,” he said into the wet skin, “I’ve got you.” He was still angry. So angry. But not with John.

 It wasn’t John’s fault that he was all demanding, demonstrative arousal, not because Sherlock had inspired his passion, but because he was full of chemicals, and Sherlock was just a way to get off.  Sherlock hated that. Two months of this surprising new relationship, this _love_ , this _desire_ , and suddenly the gift John gave him of _wanting_ him was something else. Something someone had foisted onto John, and now Sherlock was just trying to keep it under control. He didn’t want John just because John was artificially horny. He only wanted John when John _chose_ to want him. This was… abomination.  Sherlock didn’t know what else to call it. It made him sick to his stomach, for himself, for John.

Beause it was not John’s fault, or John’s choice. It was something vile that had been done _to_ him, and John was suffering too, from this lack of choice and the chemicals in his body.

John’s shoulder bumped into Sherlock’s as John began stroking himself, frantically, fast. John’s panting developed a whimper.

“T-t-talk to me…” he stuttered.

Sherlock lifted his chin to press his mouth close to John’s ear.

“I know what you said is true,” he said, low and deep, his voice rough with emotion, “You were disinhibited, not delusional. You’ve said those things to me before. You write them. For me.”

John stroked faster, stuttered something unintelligible. He seemed no closer to climax.

“You don’t know this,” Sherlock continued, talking to himself as much as to John, “But you write for me too. I don’t know how to… to say…those things. I should but I don’t.”

“”Y-y-y-you d-d-do. D-d-do things. SH-sh-sh-show th-th…”

“Your words, John, are _to_ me, but they are _for_ me, as well. You give me words.”

“Sh-sh-sherl-l-l-lock…”

“My light. My heart. My life.”

“I c-c-c-can’t-t-t…”

Sherlock reached down and placed his large hand over the top of John’s smaller hand, which was moving desperately over the painful erection. Sherlock’s hand followed but did not guide the motion. He squeezed John’s hand beneath his though, and finally, John began to come.

“Everything. You’re everything,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear, gripping his chest tight with one arm, rubbing his thumb in reassuring circles over the thumb of John’s hand under his.

Sobbing down great, gulping lungfuls of air, John sagged against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock raised his hand from John’s so that both arms were around his chest again. He waited like that, kissing John’s neck again, allowing the warmer water to sluice semen away from John’s hypersensitive skin.

“I need you to stand for a minute, John,” Sherlock said quietly, “Can you manage that?”

John was shivering. He tried to nod. Sherlock wasn’t convinced. Carefully, he maneuovred John to lean against the wall. Sherlock kept one hand on John’s back, keeping him steady, while he stepped out of the shower stall. Sherlock toed off his ruined shoes, managed to peel off his sopping shirt and trousers, leaving him in soggy socks and underpants. He reached for a towel and then leaned into the shower to wrap it around John and guide him onto the bathroom floor.

He wrapped John in multiple towels: one around his hips, another around his shoulders. He used a third to gently towel John’s hair dry. John had gone limp, almost falling asleep where he stood, propped against Sherlock’s body. John’s shivering slowly abated and when Sherlock was satisfied that John was dry and warm again, he sat John on the loo seat briefly so he could finish drying himself off too.

Getting John to bed was relatively simple after that. Sherlock half carried him to the bedroom, arranged John under the covers and pulled the duvet over his shoulders. Then Sherlock fetched his laptop and sat against the headboard on the other side of the mattress. There was plenty of reading to be done, and Sherlock planned to stay awake all night to make sure John had no other adverse reactions.

Sherlock read for several hours. Regularly, he reached down to check John’s pulse, his breathing, to run fingers through John’s still-damp hair. It was a long time before John responded to the touch at all, but eventually he murmured something, gave a little sigh and pushed fractionally into the touch. Then he settled again. Sherlock watched him, running his long, pale fingers over John’s cheek.

It was still dark, pre-dawn, when John woke up. He went from peaceful, boneless sleep to a strange snuffling sound and then jerked awake. Well, his eyes were open. ‘Awake’ was probably premature. He lay there for a moment, blinking rapidly, then rolled out of bed and staggered towards the bathroom.

Sherlock stayed where he was, listening, hands hovering over the keyboard. A strong, steady stream of water on water. Loo flushing. Vigorous tooth-brushing.  Gargling. One glass of water poured. A second. A third. Rehydrating, then. Good. No vomiting either, which was a good sign as well.

John reappeared in the doorway, a half-empty glass of water in one hand. Sherlock closed the laptop lid.

“I think I remember everything,” said John in a carefully neutral voice, “But just to be clear. Tonight we got enough evidence to catch a killer; I got drugged; I declared my undying love for you on a karaoke stage then danced like a stripper; we beat up my would-be rapist; I continued my floor show on the footpath outside the club; further declared my undying love for you in front of half of queer London and the Met; and then attempted to snog you to orgasm before coming home and jerking off in the shower to prevent bursting a minor artery.”

Sherlock remained very still on the bed. “Yes.”

John grimaced. “Top night’s work then.”

“It could have been worse.”

John dragged a hand over his face. “Yeah.” He looked up at Sherlock, his expression distraught. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, John. It was not your fault.”

“Maybe. But I feel like shit. It was stupid of me.”

“It was unfortunate. Neither of us anticipated it. The date rape drug was unrelated to the murder. If anyone should have seen the possibility of it, it was me, and I didn’t.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

John regarded Sherlock with a small frown. Then he placed the waterglass on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed. Crawled across it to Sherlock, took the laptop, reached across him to place it on the other bedside table. He sat on his heels in front of Sherlock.

“It wasn’t yours, either.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “I know that.”

“And… everything I said, the way I…” John’s jaw clenched a little, “I wasn’t…inventing any of it. It was all true.”

“I am perfectly aware of that, John.”

“What’s wrong?”

“That’s a stupid question, John.”

“Humour me.”

“Fine. Someone drugged you. He wanted to rape you, and even though he didn’t, he made you behave in a manner you would not normally display in public. You were practically having sex with me on the street, but it was not your choice to do that. It was…” Sherlock swallowed, “Horrible.”

John nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes it was. I mean, I feel like that about you. I mean, I love you, and you make me feel… erotically charged. You make me feel like that a lot of the time actually. But tonight it wasn’t you. It was a chemical cocktail providing the charge and you were simply there. It…” John felt sick. “It objectified both of us. I’m…”

“Don’t you _dare_ apologise. It wasn’t your fault that you did that, or danced like that, or that you said those things in front of a hundred strangers. You couldn’t help yourself.”

There was another note of stress and anger under that comment. John couldn’t quite get a handle on it. “Sherlock, I’m trying to understand what you’re angry about, apart from the bleeding obvious. It’s… it’s like you don’t want to look at me.”

Sherlock of course then stared straight at John. “I’m not angry with you, John. I’m angry at what he did to you. He took away your capacity for choice. Your… your capacity to choose me freely, and to choose what you say to others about us. You wouldn’t normally say things like that… in front of people. I know it’s how you feel and what you think, but you are not that demonstrative in public. You don’t like to… You prefer to keep those things private.”

John frowned, taking in Sherlock’s tense posture, his scowl, the shadow of distress still in his pale eyes. _Oh_ he thought at last, making a belated intuitive leap. **_Oh._**

“Sherlock.” John wondered for a moment if he should, but then did it anyway. He clambered up to sit straddled across Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock looked up at him, puzzled and stern. John ran his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek, looking contrite.

“I’m all for public declarations,” he said, “I’m not afraid of them. It’s not what I wanted either, to have the choice of _when_ to make one taken away from us. I’m not trying to hide, either.  I’ve been getting _used_ to us, that’s all.  I suppose I’ve been a bit selfish. You’ve only just come home. I wanted to keep this…” he pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s and then kissed him on his brow to show what ‘this’ meant, “…just us, for a bit. Keep you to myself.”

“Mrs Hudson knows. Greg, Molly and Tad know. I’ve every expectation that Mycroft knows.”

John grimaced. “I know it doesn’t make sense now I’ve said it out loud. The conclusion is that I’m an idiot. That should hardly surprise you.”

Sherlock’s expression softened. “Yes, you are.”

John laughed ruefully and smiled fondly at his light, his heart, his life.

“I don’t need to be drugged out of my gourd to lay public claim to us, you know.  I’m perfectly happy to declare my love for you and snog you blind in front of the whole of Scotland Yard while I’m stone cold sober, if you’re game. At crime scenes, even. Though that’s probably for filing under ‘a bit not good’.”

Sherlock attempted to look scandalised, but John knew better. He kissed Sherlock, kissed him again, then settled in for a good, long, passionate kiss on the third pass, pressing his nakedness close against Sherlock’s pyjamaed hips.

Sherlock’s response was wholehearted. He wound his arms around John, one hand immediately stroking down to knead John’s backside, the other curving up over his shoulders, fingers trailing across the old scar, and holding him tight.

“From now on,” said John, planting a row of kisses along Sherlock’s jaw and down his throat, “Expect PDAs whenever the mood strikes, wherever we are.”

“PD…? Oh.” Sherlock’s puzzled frown cleared. “Public Displays of Affection.”

“Unless you think it’s unprofessional.” John’s fingers feathered over Sherlock’s cheekbones then moved into his hair. He kissed Sherlock’s face then brought one of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands up to kiss the knuckles. They were slightly bruised from the assault on Leather Pants. John lipped each of the abrasions gently.

Sherlock watched John kiss his knuckles then turned his hands over so that John could kiss his palms. John traced his life line with the tip of his tongue. “Probably we shouldn’t snog over the dead bodies,” he suggested.

“Probably for the best.” John kissed Sherlock’s palm, his fingertips, his wrist, along the arm to the ticklish inside of Sherlock’s elbow. John nuzzled there for a while, discovering a new erogenous zone that made Sherlock’s breath pitch high.

“But otherwise, yes.” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to regain his normal baritone, “PDAs. Fine.”  Sherlock gathered John close to him and pressed his face to John’s neck, licking and sucking at the skin for a moment before kissing John’s pulse. “Although…” he pulled back to look into John’s eyes. “I’d prefer it if you kept the dancing just for me.”

John grinned. He kissed Sherlock and then stretched out, holding his arms in the air. He ground his hips and rocked and swayed, his arms curving in a sensuous, graceful line as he sang softly, voice deep:

 _Baby, can’t you see I’m calling_  
A guy like you should wear a warning  
It’s dangerous; I’m falling

Sherlock laughed. “You and your awful pop songs.”

John grinned and writhed in Sherlock’s lap, undulating from hip and abdomen, ribcage and sternum, shoulders and arms. Sherlock gasped at the renewed friction against his body. John’s whole torso moved sinuously on the next line and he dropped his arms so he could thread his hands through Sherlock’s hair (growing out now and regaining the curl that John hadn’t realised he would miss so much).

_There’s no escape, I can’t wait  
I need a hit, baby give me it_

And Sherlock obliged by leaning in, grazing his teeth over one nipple, then the other, pausing to suckle each time. John arched into Sherlock’s mouth.  When he got his breath back, John tried for the next line.

_You’re dangerous; I’m loving it_

But the words were swallowed in a moan that turned into throaty laughter and then another deep, spine-tingling moan of pure pleasure, first John’s, then Sherlock’s, as Sherlock repeated his ministrations.

John straightened up on his knees, his legs on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, and leaned down to slide his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas. Sherlock raised his hips and helped John push the material away.

Sherlock took advantage of the shift in their positions to push John onto his back, to push down against him, chest to chest, belly to belly, groin to groin, thigh to thigh. Their cocks, hot and oh god getting slippery now, slid together with exquisite drag.

Sherlock arched and rubbed the length of his body against John’s and John spread his legs and curved them around Sherlock’s hips and lower back, trapping him willingly close.

“You really do have a magnificent arse,” John told him, spreading his knees wide and bringing his feet up to press against the fabulous backside in question.  Sherlock ground his hips obligingly, pushing their slick erections together, meanwhile pressing open-mouth kisses and licks to John’s throat and chest.

John slid the arches of his feet down, then, over the back of Sherlock’s thighs and his calves.

“I have,” said Sherlock between gasping kisses, “A very fine mind too.”

“You do.” John flexed his whole body upwards against Sherlock’s, “It’s extraordinary. You’re extraordinary. Don’t ever go away from me again.”

“Never.” Sherlock’s reply was partially muffled by John’s kiss. Long and passionate, using tongues and the gentlest graze of teeth against lips.

“Even if you think you have to,” John added at last, wrapping Sherlock tight in his arms and legs, “I’ll follow you next time, if you try. I will hunt you down.”

Sherlock groaned, which was not an answer, but John pushed up against him hard, kissed him harder still. “Lube,” he managed in his next breath.

They parted long enough for Sherlock to reach back to the table, grab the tube from the drawer, to slick up his fingers and reach between them to slide his fingers against John’s cock, over his balls, along his perineum and up between the cheeks of his luscious backside. John groaned and thrust into the touch.

“This, this, this, this,” he chanted breathlessly, “God yes, please, Sherlock, fuck yes,  you are you are you are so fucking perfect, god I want I want yes, Beautiful, my my my beautiful, right ah ah ah there god please, Sherlock, now, I want you in me now, now now now oh…” and all words except _Sherlock_ failed the wordsmith and the man who never stopped talking breathed only _John yes John_ into his love’s mouth as he thrust and held tight and, oh god, thrust and thrust and reached down between them to curl an elegant hand around John’s cock and they pushed into and against each other until their bodies crested the wave and names became hoarse cries and then nothing but heaving breaths.

Sherlock, collapsed across John’s chest, kissed randomly at the hot, sweaty skin. John buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, then let his hands roam across Sherlock’s shoulders, his back, holding him close.

“My gorgeous bit of crumpet,” he sighed, and giggled.

Sherlock’s random kisses halted. John looked down to see Sherlock gazing up at him through drowsy but amused eyes.

“You can be my bit of rough, then,” said Sherlock.

John grinned. “Sure.” He nipped Sherlock’s earlobe to demonstrate his roughness. Then he started humming.

Sherlock pushed himself onto his elbows to examine John’s expression.

“That’s new.”

“Mmm,” John agreed.

“It’s not an awful pop song I’ve never heard,” said Sherlock confidently, “It’s you.”

“Mmm,” John agreed again.

Sherlock adopted an avid expression.

“Not even going to wait till I write it down before you try to wheedle it out of me, are you?” said John, laughing.

“No.”

“Too bad. It hasn’t got any words yet.”

Sherlock kissed John gently, breathing in the notes, swiping them delicately from the tip of John’s tongue with his own.

“May I suggest some?” he asked, surprisingly diffidently, but then, Sherlock never wrote lyrics.

John kissed him. “Fire away.”

“Light,” said Sherlock, and kissed the corner of John’s eye. “Life,” he said, kissing the point in John’s throat where his pulse beat. “Heart,” he said and kissed John’s chest.

John grinned. “I can do that. I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with ‘crumpet’ anyway.”

“Strumpet,” said Sherlock instantly.

John giggled.

**

Later in the day, John and Sherlock went to the police station, ostensibly to make their report on both the killer and the drink-spiker. Mostly, though, it seemed they went purely in order for the two of them to give Leather Pants the most cold and evil of evil eyes when it looked like he wasn’t going to co-operate with enquiries.  He was in the foyer, being escorted out by Greg Lestrade, when Sherlock and John arrived and regarded him from six steps away.  John flexed one fist thoughtfully. Sherlock gave the man a look that would cut steel and then ruthlessly deduced the bastard to tears, about everything from his athlete’s foot and chronic halitosis to his list of failures as an employee, cat-owner and only son before Greg could stop him. Not that Greg tried in the slightest.

Mr Leather Pants (real name Phil Langham) folded meekly after that and told the police everything, including a dozen things that had no bearing on the case at all, but nobody could shut him up. Charges were laid and he accepted his fate with resignation.

And then the final item on the Holmes-Watson agenda, which appeared to be to stand just outside the front entrance of New Scotland Yard and kiss like there was no tomorrow just as the day shift was breaking for lunch.

Tad Anderson and Greg Lestrade passed by, which was certainly no coincidence, any more than their arrival just as Langham had attempted to leave was mere serendipity. Greg, having already ascertained that all was well after the previous night’s disturbing events, rolled his eyes at them. He, Molly and Tad had already been subjected to this pair’s surreptitious snogs and touches when they thought no-one was looking at band practice. Though to be fair, Greg thought, everyone else had been subjected to him and Molly going through the same can’t-get-enough-of-you phase. Which, also to be fair, wasn’t actually over for them yet, either.

Tad, however, laughed and gave them a middling score out of ten. Sherlock stopped kissing John long enough to argue that they deserved at least a nine and Tad, looking at John’s bright eyes and smug grin, and Sherlock’s smile that kept slipping out despite his best attempts to look stern, upgraded them to an eight and said there was room for improvement and that he expected to see a bit more effort in future.

Sherlock accused Tad of bias. Tad said that being biased didn’t make him wrong, and he’d drop it back to a seven if Sherlock didn’t behave. John burst out laughing, declared Sherlock a subjective ten and that Tad not only had no idea of the excellence of Sherlock’s kissing, but had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever finding out, for which Tad gave a short but vocal prayer of thanks while Sherlock expressed his horror at the notion with a pair of beyond-startled eyebrows. And then John kissed Sherlock again to put a halt to the argument. Then they all confirmed the time for band practice, juicy murders notwithstanding, on the coming Saturday.  

John took Sherlock by the hand and they strode off through the small knot of police officers pretending not to be interested, in order to meet a new client who had emailed about a pot plant that had grown a metre overnight, the neighbour’s stereo that kept playing the exact same song every hour on the hour and a pet dog that forgot how to do its tricks every second weekend.

No, Sherlock and John never did make any kind of formal public declaration: but informal ones? Daily, through deed and word and song. And John only danced like that in public one other time, and it was for a case, and Sherlock told him he had to, and it ended in spectacular sex in a dressing room, so neither of them minded very much.

 


	4. Strumpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song that John started to write after some great sex at the end of 'My Love is Electric'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The melody that John wrote for this song is very chirpy and happy. He always says that all of his happy songs are rubbish. He never did finish writing this one. It's way too sentimental and personal for playing with Collared, plus he can barely get past the crumpet/strumpet lines without laughing.
> 
> Instead, if Sherlock is getting post-case crankies or being a brat with boredom, John will often sing this to him. Sometimes the rendition ends with sex. Sometimes it ends with Sherlock chasing John out of the house with a broom. In the latter cases, John proceeds to text the lyrics to Sherlock one line at a time while he goes shopping at Tescos. He will sometimes also call, knowing Sherlock won't answer, and sing the song onto his Voicemail. This will also often result in sex.
> 
> Sherlock keeps all versions of the song on his voicemail service, though he won't admit it to John. John found out though, when Ford was five years old and worked out how to use Sherlock's phone. Ford played the song to the whole household, which at that time included Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Sally as well as John and Sherlock.
> 
> For months afterwards, Ford could be found while playing, eating or staring thoughtfully into space, singing 'You are my crumpet, my lovely lissome strumpet' without much idea what it meant, just that it was a happy bit of music.

__

Ask me to, I'll dance for you  
Your eyes my blazing spotlight  
Ask me to, I'll sing for you  
My heart already beats for you  
The rhythm of our life  
  
  
You are my heart, my head, my world  
You are my light, my love, my life  
(And you are my crumpet,  
my lovely lissome strumpet)  
You are my strength, my voice, my breath,  
My song, my soul, you are, you are my all.

 


	5. Honey, Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's taken Sherlock eight months to come up with a pet name for John. Of course, it has multiple layers and associations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the ABBA song, Honey, Honey.

The room was full of the sounds of rapid breathing, the slap and slide of bodies colliding, the voices of two men in raptures.

“God, yes, fuck, oh that’s beautiful, that’s… Christ, yes, Sherlock, perfect, you, fuck, oh god, you. Are. So. God. Perfect. You…” John’s voice was an incantation of encouragement and appreciation. That he was still capable of even semi-coherent utterances at all was something of a miracle. They had been at it for well over an hour, a symphony of desire and teasing, a sensuous brinksmanship that had John and Sherlock ebbing and flowing, never quite ceasing, never quite breaking the shore. It was exquisite, or would be, if it didn’t kill them.

They were both covered in a sheen of sweat. By this point, Sherlock was on his back and John snugged up between Sherlock’s splayed legs. Sherlock’s left leg was raised, hooked over John’s right shoulder, his right leg hooked around John’s waist.

John was on his knees, hands on Sherlock’s thighs, thrusting his hips in a sinuous roll, his cock sliding in and out of Sherlock’s gorgeous arse in a deliciously slow rhythm.  He ceased his aroused babble long enough to rub his bristled cheek along the side of Sherlock’s knee, crooked over his shoulder, darting his tongue out to gather a bead of sweat there.

Sherlock’s low, breathy moans rose a note at the same time as he raised his hips. “John,” he said, “John. John. John.”

“Baby, god yes, Sherlock, yes, you are, Christ that is good, do that, do that again, god…”  He lifted one hand from a pale thigh and cupped Sherlock’s balls, rolling the delicate skin, fondling it with just the right pressure and movement. Sherlock’s ragged _Oh!_ started low and ended, brokenly, just above a middle C, and then found urgent voice.

“John. John. JohnJohnJohnJohn.”

Sherlock uses very few words in bed, but there is no doubt about what he wants. He says John’s name with a timbre and rhythm that’s unmistakable. When he wants John to go deeper, his voice drops to his deepest register; it goes up when he wants those quick, shallow thrusts. When he wants John to go slowly, he drawls _Jooooooooooooohn_ in a long, lazy tone and when he’s finally ready, god yes, god _soon_ , god **_now_** , he chants _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ and John hears and delivers just what his Sherlock needs.

John skimmed his hand over Sherlock’s balls again and then gripped his cock, and he stroked and thrust in a speedy tempo while Sherlock tried to use his legs to bring John closer to him. His hands closed over John’s on his cock and dear god, the noise, the cries, the crescendo! Sherlock’s loud, lusty shout tipped John over the brink, and their names in one another’s mouths rang in the air, behind the breathless, wordless panting that followed.

John collapsed bonelessly over Sherlock’s stomach and chest, panting and lipping at the salty perspiration clinging to his lover’s lovely, lovely nipple. His ears were still ringing, so the first time John heard the endearment, he nearly missed it.

Sherlock’s hand had swiped up from the curve of John’s backside to the nape of his neck, and Sherlock had buried his nose in John’s hair and breathed a word. Breathed it again. He swept his hand through John’s hair, sighed and said a third time:

“Honey.”

“Mmm?”

Sherlock kissed John’s brow then wrapped his arms around his lover and nuzzled his hair again.

“Your hair,” murmured Sherlock, “The colour of honey, some of it.”

John smiled against his skin. “The bits that aren’t grey, you mean.”

“Mmm.”

John licked at Sherlock’s nipple, just to feel Sherlock’s over-sensitised twitch underneath him.

“Medicinal properties,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Mmm?”

“Honey. Has medicinal properties. Bacteria won’t grow in it.”

“That’s nice.” John turned his head to kiss Sherlock’s sternum.

“Lasts forever.”

“Thank you.”

“Honey,” clarified Sherlock, “Doesn’t go off. It’s... steadfast. ” Then he smiled sleepily, “Edible forever. You too.”

“You’re pretty astonishing yourself, Crumpet.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and nuzzled John’s hair again. “Honey. Honey honey honey. My Honey.”

John puffed a little laugh. Sherlock never called him anything but John, usually. Well, they called each other _idiot_ , sometimes, but rarely in bed, and usually affectionately. He pushed himself up a little to kiss Sherlock’s chin, which was as far as he could reach right then.

“My Crumpet,” said John fondly.

“Yes,” murmured Sherlock, as though John had answered a quiz question correctly. Then he shifted and wriggled until John had slid off his torso and tucked himself neatly into Sherlock’s side.

It had been a long day (involving a drowned man dressed in scuba equipment, which wouldn’t have even rated a One if he hadn’t been a Mongolian national who didn’t know how to swim, found dead in the middle of Harrods) so, despite the stickiness, they both drifted off to sleep.

John woke briefly in the morning as the bed dipped and settled again.

“Honey,” John murmured. Mostly still asleep, he was only half aware of the warmth breath and the lips pressed to his cheek.

“That’s you,” Sherlock’s low voice drifted into his mind like a cloud.

“No. F’r you,” John mumbled back, “In th’ kitchen. Bought it. For you.”

“Ah.”

The warm presence departed, and John drifted back to sleep. He woke properly later, to the faint sounds of dishes clinking in the kitchen. _More likely to be an experiment than breakfast_ , he acknowledged with a small sigh of resignation. With a rueful grimace, John pushed the mildly icky sheet aside and headed for the shower.

Imagine John’s surprise when he padded into the kitchen, wearing only underpants and a soft, dark green tartan bathrobe, to find breakfast instead of petri dishes and test tubes full of strange chemical potions.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked, handing John a cup of tea. (Overbrewed, as usual. Sherlock was much too easily distracted by ideas and tasks he found more interesting, so everything from tea and toast to fried eggs and beans tended to be either undercooked or overcooked to a startling degree.)

John laughed. “Guess.”

“You’re always hungry,” Sherlock said, with a sideways grin, “Especially in the morning. Especially after a case, and especially after a case followed by energetic sex. So yes, you’re hungry. But you have indicated that you like it when I ask for your preferences rather than deducing them…”

“Sometimes,” replied John, his eyes crinkling in mischievous humour, “And sometimes, like last night…” when the detective had used his deductive gifts to encourage their epic and energetic lovemaking to last for ninety solid minutes, “I like being deduced. Rather a lot.”

Sherlock grinned, looking very pleased with himself. “Here.” He shoved a plate into John’s place at the table as John sat down. The jar of honey, already a third depleted, sat in the middle of the table.  The label proclaimed it to be LondonTown Honey, the product of a program of rooftop beehives located near London’s many parks. John remembered Sherlock talking about the scheme and wondering if their own rooftop would be a suitable site for a hive, so John had tracked down a jar of the Hyde Park variant for them to try.

The plate contained two crumpets, toasted to perfection, slathered in fragrant honey.

John scooped up one of the crumpets and took a bite. Honey dribbled between his fingers. John ducked his head to lick at the runaway stream. In doing so, he tilted the crumpet the other way and honey ran down the back of his hand. John deftly switched the crumpet from one hand to the other, taking a second bite in the process, and then employed his lithe little tongue across his skin. He quickly licked at the honey gathering on the underside of the crumpet then, and demolished the treat in two more quick bites.

He looked up from licking his fingers and palms to find Sherlock watching him.

“Bit much honey,” John explained, feeling like he was five years old and being told off for his dreadful table manners.

“It’s the perfect amount of honey, John,” said Sherlock avidly, his deep voice thrumming.

Perhaps only Sherlock can put two and two together and come up with forty-seven, but John Watson is no slouch when it comes to intuitive mathematics. In eight months, Sherlock had not used any pet name with him at all, and now there was… Honey. And this breakfast. John’s heart gave a little flutter. Only Sherlock would spend time choosing a pet name that had a logical fit with multiple meanings.

John blinked, then smiled.

He picked up the second crumpet. Honey had already pooled on the plate beneath it. Carefully, he swiped his tongue underneath the crumpet, gathering the sweetness there, then bit into it. He flicked his tongue out, capturing stickiness from his lower lip. Sherlock’s eyes grew wider, his breathing faster.

John put the rest of the second crumpet to one side of the plate then dragged a forefinger with luxuriant deliberation through the pool of honey. He offered the finger, swathed in viscous golden liquid, to Sherlock.

Sherlock bent his head, wrapped his mouth around the offering and sucked, slowly and lavishly. Mouth closed, he licked, swirling his tongue around the shape and texture of his honeyed Honey. He slid his mouth up and down John’s finger several times before releasing it with a slight, wet pop.

John dragged two fingers through the honey next. Sherlock slurped those into his mouth as well and fellated the digits with scrupulous, wanton attention. John could not take his eyes off the performance. He could almost have sworn his fingers were swelling in empathy with his growing erection. _What the hell._ _The sheets are already a mess._

“Nothing urgent on this morning, I take it?” John asked, to be absolutely clear, “No timely experiments needing your attention? No calls from the Yard?”

Sherlock, mouth still full of John’s sticky fingers, shook his head.

“Good.”

Sherlock released John’s fingers with another wet slide of lips on skin, and leaned forward to press his golden-smeared mouth to John’s.  He dealt with the height difference by sliding onto John’s lap, straddling his thighs and pressing his own hot groin to John’s. They rocked gently against each other, and for a good long while, they kissed, dissolving every last sweet trace of breakfast from their mouths.

Finally, John picked up the jar of honey with his non-honey-smeared hand. “Back to bed with you,” he said, voice low, “I need to smother my Crumpet with honey.”

“Mmm,” whispered Sherlock approvingly, “My Honey.”

 


	6. Join My Body With My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Variations universe, Sherlock is still a donor father for Mycroft and Sally, due to Mycroft's infertility. However, even Sherlock with a reawakened libido seems to be having performance anxiety when it comes to producing the necessary sperm. Luckily, John is in the clinic waiting room and willing to lend a hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Reef's 'Place Your Hands'. 
> 
> This is the Variations take on the Guitar Man story [Messin' With the Danger Zone.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/932629)

Sherlock Holmes sighed, irritated. Frustrated. He ought to be able to do this. It was such a fundamental thing. Masturbation was the daily past-time of millions of idiots all around the world, and surely not beyond the scope of a genius.

When Sherlock agreed to become a sperm donor for Mycroft and Sally, he knew what would be involved. Of course he did. To extract sperm, the fastest, easiest, most economical method was to ‘rub one out’, as the vernacular had it.  He honestly had no idea why it was causing him so much trouble.

Personally, he blamed the carpet. Or possibly the walls.

He may not have bothered much with masturbation most of his adult life – he’d spent most of it ruthlessly suppressing his libido, much as he’d ruthlessly suppressed his need for sleep or food – but that had radically changed in the last eighteen months. Well, not that he masturbated much now, either. No need really, with a ready, willing and extremely enticing partner permanently in his life.

 _Just think of John_ he told himself firmly, and gave his flaccid penis a cross, uncompromising glare. His uncooperative penis seemed to stare right back at him. _Bastard._

Sherlock imagined John kneeling in front of him, looking up through his short, sandy lashes, his blue eyes avid with desire, that mobile tongue flicking out across his lower lip. Sherlock imagined that tongue flicking forward with more intent, sliding over the head of Sherlock’s limp penis, which was now perking up and showing a bit more interest. Sherlock imagined John lipping at his soft cock then slipping it into his mouth, suckling gently at the ridges, the veins, the soft-skinned shaft…

Sherlock, eyes closed, held himself with his left hand and reached down with the right to run his fingers through John’s hair, and encountered only air. He opened one eye to stare at the absence of John, and caught site once more of that off-putting carpet.

Sherlock, and more importantly his penis, lost interest again.

 _Fine,_ Sherlock thought impatiently, _well then **fine**. Clearly, I am only sexually responsive to John._ Not other people (he hadn’t even bothered trying: he couldn’t think of anyone he’d actually want touching him); not the _idea_ of John. _Actual_ John.

Luckily, there was an Actual John on the premises.

Sherlock hitched his trousers back over his hips, did up the zip and went to the door. He opened it, looking past the nurse sitting accusingly at her station with her damnably _expectant_ expression, and straight at John. John was sitting in a chair and reading a gossip rag that was four years out of date.

“John.”

John threw the magazine aside with unseemly haste, grateful to be rid of the thing. “Done?”

“Shortly,” said Sherlock with a scowl, “I would like your advice.”

The nurse raised a disapproving eyebrow.

“He’s my doctor,” snapped Sherlock crisply. He heard John suppress a laugh.

“Yes, I am,” John said, with all appearance of medical credibility, “I’m sure this will just take a moment.”

Sherlock stood aside to let John slip into the room with him. John closed the door, locked it, and turned to regard Sherlock with a combination of affection and concern.

“Is everything okay? Have you changed your mind? It’s okay if you have.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” snapped Sherlock, “I… have you? Are you still all right with this?”

“I’m absolutely all right with it. You know I think it’s a wonderful idea, but only if it’s what you want.”

“It is. It’s simply that… I don’t seem to be able to… without you.” Sherlock cleared his throat a little noisily, suddenly awkward.

John’s expression softened into a smile that showed only kindness, humble surprise and thoughtful consideration.

“Hey, it’s all right. What do you need?”

“A _hand_ , apparently,” Sherlock said, voice tart with self-disdain, “It seems I am unresponsive to the usual stimuli, and I keep getting distracted. These appalling magazines, for example. Good god, are these meant to be stimulating? _Really?_ Sweaty over-muscled morons with arms and legs that look like stockings stuffed with walnuts, or those pale effeminate boys pursing their lips like a 50s matinee ingénue? How could anyone find those pictures anything but pitiful? And then there’s the carpet. I challenge anyone to work up any kind of erotic imagery when they catch sight of that beige monstrosity. It’s impossible to feel more aroused than a limp lettuce leaf. It’s offensive. And I won’t even start on the walls, that appalling paint job, it’s uneven over three quarters of the west wall and a completely different shade on the south wall, and you can see how the rollers were used in haphazard directions on all the surfaces, there is no rhyme or reason to the paint strokes, it’s a distracting, miserable blight on the eye and has the most disrupting effect on concentration and…”

“Okay. Well, let’s just start with breathing, all right Sherlock?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, startled by his own diatribe, and the look he gave John was verging on despair.

“Oh god,” he whispered in horror to John, “How can I not actually masturbate?”

“Because you’re wound up too tight, love,” said John gently, “And nothing you do is ever easy. It’s your trademark. Come on. Breathe for a bit. That’s it.”

John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and gently drew him down, fingers caressing behind his ear, thumbs over his cheekbones, while John stretched up slightly to meet him. Foreheads pressed together, they breathed each other’s warm air until Sherlock calmed down.

“That’s it,” John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s briefly, then again, “Just breathe.”

“I know how to breathe, John,” Sherlock said peevishly, but he was calmer. He could feel the tension bleeding away from his shoulders and back. He realised that not only his hands but even his toes had been clenched.

“Of course you do,” John breathed against his mouth, then kissed him again. Sherlock relaxed, moulding his lips to John’s, melting into the kiss.

John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed his body close to Sherlock’s. He kissed Sherlock’s jaw, his throat, his mouth again, and Sherlock wound his arms tight around John. Ridiculous that this should make him feel… safe. _From masturbation. Good god_.

“Hey, don’t tense up again,” John admonished him gently, “It’s all right. This is a bit different to what you’re used to, that’s all. You’re overthinking it. Just relax.” He kissed the instruction into Sherlock’s lips, pressed it gently into Sherlock’s ribs and his back and his thighs with two steady, soothing hands.

Sherlock’s splayed hands moved under John’s jacket, sliding over the top of his shirt to feel the compact body beneath. Then he tugged the shirt out of John’s jeans, fingers seeking skin. John likewise loosened Sherlock’s fine cotton shirt and dipped his fingers beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. His hands moved down to the curve of Sherlock’s backside, and Sherlock responded with a gentle push of his groin against John’s pelvis.

“That’s it,” John murmured as Sherlock leaned into each touch, “That’s lovely.”

They stood there for some minutes, kissing and touching, fingers and palms skating over warm skin. John’s tongue followed the column of Sherlock’s long, pale neck, wetly investigating his pulse point and then the dip above his left clavicle, then the hollow below his Adam’s apple. Encountering cloth, John brought his hands up and gently unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt from the top down, revealing by inches pale skin over wiry muscle.

“Here, love,” John stood back a little, drawing a small sigh of protest from Sherlock, but when he saw that John was unfastening his trousers, he watched those sure, steady fingers undo the button, drag down the zip, pull the clothing open.

“Look at you,” said John, voice low and appreciative, his fingers tracing lines of muscle from Sherlock’s chest and stomach, following the line of fine hair trailing from his navel into his boxers, now tenting with the erection Sherlock had found so elusive.

“John,” was all Sherlock said, the name mumbled against the delicate skin below John’s right ear. Sherlock’s hands inched below the waistband of John’s jeans, and his pants, to knead John’s arse and draw him closer. “John.”

John skimmed his palms over Sherlock’s waist and hips, gathering the top of the boxers as he went, pulling them smoothly down Sherlock’s thighs and over his erection.

A quick glance at a utilitarian side table confirmed the presence of a bottle of lube and the open sterile jar for the sample. John used one hand to pump lube onto his fingers and then he slid his fingers delicately over the crown of Sherlock’s cock, down the shaft to cup his balls. Sherlock moaned and thrust into the touch.

“Turn this way, love, that’s it.” Keeping at least one hand to Sherlock’s hip or thigh or belly, placing random kisses on Sherlock’s chest and collarbone and neck, John moved until he was behind Sherlock, pressed close against his back. John’s own erection, trapped uncomfortably inside his jeans, was a warm, insistent presence against the cleft of Sherlock’s bared buttocks. John ground himself against that lovely arse for a moment, because it made Sherlock moan and push back against him.

“That’s beautiful,” John murmured against Sherlock’s back. John reached around, running his left hand over Sherlock’s belly, the other down Sherlock’s hip, into the crease of his thigh, across to cup his tightening balls.

“John,” Sherlock moaned again, capturing John’s right hand in his, encouraging the touch to move to the shaft of his cock. John obliged, and Sherlock pushed into the curl of John’s hand around him.

“Don’t forget the sample jar, sweetheart,” breathed John, pushing his own covered cock against Sherlock’s curvaceous backside, sliding his and Sherlock’s hands up Sherlock’s shaft to the glans, up over the head, back down.

Sherlock plucked the container into his left hand. “John. Yes. _John_.”

“That’s it, love. God yes.” Their hands moved more quickly, beads of pre-cum spilling to add to the lube, keeping the movement slick. John tightened his hold, began twisting his wrist a little at the end of each stroke, Sherlock’s hand over his setting the tempo.

“ _Jooohnnn_.”

“You are amazing,” John told his lover, not able to see but revelling in the hot, thick weight of Sherlock’s cock in his hand. He could feel the tension building in Sherlock’s thighs, in the way he stood, his arse pressing back into John’s aching cock, “God, yes, Sherlock, that’s it. That’s it, baby. Are you ready?”

“Mmm… _oh_ …”

Their combined stroke quickened, and John couldn’t help grinding against Sherlock’s backside harder, faster himself. He felt the moment that Sherlock’s rhythm began to tip over from exquisite pleasure to divine orgasm.

“Come for me, gorgeous,” said John, his free arm wrapped tight around Sherlock’s waist, “Come on, sweetheart, show me, baby, come for me.”

Sherlock shuddered, his chin dropped to his chest so he could watch, make sure he captured his ejaculate correctly. His left hand moved suddenly with the container, his right guided John’s still-stroking hand to get the aim right, and then Sherlock came in waves, breathing hard, voice broken and deep with _oh oh oh oh oh John._

John slowed his stroke, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock trembling in his arms, then stilled at last. They stood there quietly, Sherlock recovering his breath as he leaned against John’s torso, backside pressed to John’s throbbing, trapped cock. John’s cheek was pressed to Sherlock’s back and he held tight, inhaling the scent of cotton, perspiration, sex. He felt the muscles in Sherlock’s back shift as Sherlock took up the lid and screwed it onto the specimen jar, then replaced the container on the table surface. More movement as Sherlock rearranged himself, pulled his trousers up, did up the zipper and the button.

“John?"

“Yes, love?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s shirt.

“Stand up a little,” Sherlock said and John obeyed, pushing reluctantly away from that pleasant but unfulfilling pressure of Sherlock’s delicious arse. God he wanted that arse. He wanted to bite and kiss it, lick it, with any luck part those luscious cheeks and have at his love for the next few minutes until Sherlock came again, and John with him, but it really wasn’t appropriate. _Goddamnit, I think I’m going to sprain something if I don’t…_

But then Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of him, unfastened John’s jeans, tugged down both denim and cotton briefs, and leaned forward to swallow John’s freed erection whole, down to the root. Sherlock’s hands slid around John’s hips to his arse and pulled John’s pelvis closer. Sherlock squeezed and massaged John’s buttocks in time to the slide of his rounded mouth up and down John’s cock, with the wicked curl of his tongue around the crown, over his slit, his foreskin, back down his shaft. Two fingers delicately explored the cleft of John’s backside, brushing intimately over sensitive skin.

“God, Sherlock, we can’t…”

Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and John abruptly decided he did not give one solitary fuck about how appropriate this was. With a breathless moan he spread his legs as far as he could, with his clothes still trapped around his thighs. He buried his left hand in Sherlock’s dark hair, holding steady and feeling Sherlock move against him. “God. Yes, baby. God. Yes.”

Sherlock responded to this encouragement with a deft lick and suck of John’s cock and the delicate, spiralling swirl of one finger between the cheeks of John’s arse, circling down to the sensitive skin of his anus.

John threw his head back and let a low rumble of pleasure chant out of him in a harsh whisper as his hips jerked against Sherlock’s willing mouth. “ _Oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgodSherlockgodyesyesyes.”_

Sherlock shifted to grasp John’s buttocks, and sucked and licked and swallowed until John went soft against his tongue. Gently, he withdrew, tucked John back into his briefs and pulled his pants and jeans up again.

“There,” Sherlock said, his smile pressed in a kiss to John’s mouth. John’s lips parted and he kissed Sherlock more deeply, content with the taste of himself on Sherlock’s tongue. “Mission accomplished.”

They took a few moments to collect themselves, then, despite knowing they weren’t really fooling anyone, unlocked the door and stepped out, trying to look like they had simply had a brief doctor/patient consultation. A slight wobbliness about the knees made it almost impossible to keep up the pointless charade, but they gave it their best shot.

Sherlock placed the labelled specimen jar on the appropriate tray and they both pretended not to see the nurse’s frankly amused expression as they hurried out of the clinic.

Sherrinford Holmes was born to Sally Donovan and Mycroft Holmes nine months later, a healthy boy. Beautiful and perfect and a marvel to all three of his parents, none of whom had ever thought to have a child, ever.

After leaving the private ward where Sherlock first saw, first held, his biological child; first fell in love with a tiny human being, Sherlock stood in the street and looked at John. He swallowed, his brow crinkled, overcome by sudden emotion. John paused with him, smiling at him.

“You’re a father,” said John, his voice tinged with love and amazement.

“Only nominally,” Sherlock said, his own voice adrift with wonder. “Mycroft and Sally are his parents.”

“You’ll be part of his life, Sherlock, always. You’re his father too.”

“And you.”

John’s brow creased in puzzlement.

“You’re his father too,” said Sherlock, even though he knew it wasn’t really rational. It felt true in ways that had nothing to do with logic. “You helped us… helped me, to make him.”

For a moment Sherlock was confused and horrified at the sudden tears in John’s eyes, but then John grinned, a joyful sort of realisation, and Sherlock grinned back at him.

“Okay, yeah,” said John, voice choking with emotion over the syllables, “Yeah. All right.”

Nothing more coherent seemed to be forthcoming, so Sherlock bent to kiss John, and John chose to kiss him passionately back rather than try to make sentences. They broke apart at last, all breathless smiles and laughter.

“Cigars are traditional at this point,” said Sherlock.

“You don’t smoke any more,” pointed out John, “But Greg texted from a crime scene a little while ago. He sent photos of two bodies found in a locked garage, no weapons, no obvious cause of death and the CCTV footage apparently shows nothing but a rat and what looks like a weasel coming out of a waterpipe leading to the rear of the building.”

Sherlock’s grin broadened. “Excellent.”

“I thought so. Let’s go solve crimes, Mr Holmes.”

And in celebration of the birth of the Holmes-Donovan-Holmes-Watson son, they did.

 


End file.
